Baseball Great (2 page)

WHEN HIS FATHER FINALLY
noticed Josh, his thick, black eyebrows gathered low over his dark eyes, adding to the stormy look on his face.

“Thought you had practice,” his father said in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder.

“Tomorrow,” Josh said, going to the refrigerator, pouring himself a glass of milk, and tearing open a pack of frozen Fig Newtons as if nothing was wrong.

“Well,” his father said, with a glance at Josh's mother, “this is it. It's got to be.”

His mother offered a hopeful smile.

“But we don't know,” his father said, still rumbling with the ball now clutched tight in his fist. “We never know. It's never in till it's in, and it's never out till it's out; that's the game.”

Josh nodded at the logic. He knew now that even though the call they waited for might take them away, it would also fulfill his father's lifelong dream. Despite being the seventeenth overall pick of the draft and being heralded as the young lefty who'd save the Mets, Josh's father had never thrown a single major-league pitch in his twelve years as a pro. Instead, he had bounced around from one small city to another, riddling the countryside with his left-handed prowess, up and down the minor leagues in four different organizations but never quite making it beyond Triple-A ball.

“Vasquez tore a hamstring,” his father said, biting back a smile and looking grim. “Soon as I heard that, I had to get out of the clubhouse. Wanted to get the news right here with my family.”

Josh knew his baseball, especially the players in his father's organization. He could recite each player's batting average and each pitcher's ERA for the past three seasons. Armand Vasquez was the Toronto Blue Jays' second left-handed relief pitcher, limiting hitters to a batting average of .209. Josh's father threw for the Syracuse Chiefs, Toronto's Triple-A farm team.

His father issued a nervous chuckle and said, “I mean, how do you not bring up last year's MVP when he's on track to do it again? When you've got an ERA of—”

“One-point-eight-seven,” Josh's mother said in a burst of numbers, her high, round cheeks turning candy apple red.

His father nodded and said, “So.”

Josh bit into his cookie, nodding along with them, and, as if on cue, the phone rang.

His father jumped up, snatching it from the wall.

JOSH'S FATHER SLAMMED THE
phone back onto its hook and glared at Josh and his mom.

“Won't tell me a dang thing,” his father said. “You believe that? My whole life in the balance and Simmons says he needs to see me in person. If I knew that, I wouldn't have left the stadium. Come on, Josh. I want you to be there. I did most of this for you anyway.”

Josh opened his mouth to say it didn't matter to him if his dad ever threw a pitch in the big leagues or not, but the look on his father's face made him think better of it.

“I'll get that,” his mother said, taking the empty milk glass from his hand and bringing it to the sink. “You go with your father.”

“Sure,” Josh said, and followed the big man out of
the house and into the garage without speaking.

They rode in silence, his father chomping a wad of gum and changing the radio station every couple seconds and Josh biting his tongue to keep from asking him to stop. In minutes the street broke the rise and they could see the stadium spread out below, pinned in on all sides, by the highway, the train station, a swamp, and several blocks of abandoned warehouses. As they descended the hill and turned the corner, the central entrance of the stadium rose up like the tower of a fortress. A flag flew from its peak. An iron fence surrounded the players' parking lot, and Josh's dad pulled in to the mixed bag of cars. Some, like their Taurus, were late-model clunkers. Only the new rookies with signing bonuses drove shiny sports cars or gleaming SUVs.

At the side door, a sleepy man wearing thick glasses and a windbreaker with a security patch read the paper without looking up.

“Hey, Glen,” Josh's father said.

“Uh-huh,” Glen said, licking a finger and turning the page.

Josh stayed close, following his dad through the maze of hallways, past where they would turn for the lockers, to the end of a hall and into the elevator.

The general manager's office had a back wall of glass overlooking the nearby lake and the smokestacks
of several power plants and a steel mill on the far shore. Josh knew the GM but had never been in his office before, and it surprised him to see that Dallas Simmons sat with his desk facing the double doors instead of the panoramic view. Dallas had white tufts of hair over his ears, but he looked young for an old guy. His skin, the color of coffee with lots of milk, ran smoothly from the top of his head to the base of his neck without a wrinkle. His hazel eyes normally twinkled like Santa Claus's, dueling with the flash of white teeth in his easy smile.

When he saw Josh, the light in Dallas's eyes went out. Still, the GM cranked up a smile and said, “Josh, good to see you. Start your season yet?”

“Tomorrow,” Josh said. “Good to see you, too.”

“Future Hall of Famer,” Josh's dad said, patting him on the back.

“Gary,” Dallas said, addressing Josh's dad, “maybe Josh can help field some balls? I've got that kid from Tulsa doing some extra hitting out on the field.”

Josh's dad gave Dallas a funny look, and his hand went around the back of Josh's neck. “No, that's okay. He'll stay.”

“Because I'd love to have him see this kid hit,” Dallas said, clearing his throat and nodding toward the door.

“Say what you gotta say, Dallas,” his father said in a
growl. “They're bringing me up, right?”

Dallas looked at Josh's father for what seemed like a long time before he sighed and pinched the top of his nose. Shaking his head, he said, “No, Gary, they're not.”

“I'm a lefty,” his father said softly.

“I know,” Dallas said.

“Your MVP,” his father said.

“They want to take a look at Dick Campbell.”

“Campbell stinks!” his father said. “His ERA is what? Four-point-six-three? You're joking.”

“They think he translates.”

“
He
translates?”

“He's twenty years old,” Dallas said, looking up wearily, avoiding Josh's eyes. “They think he's got potential, and he does. You're thirty-one.”

Josh's father stepped up to Dallas's big, wide desk, placing his large hands flat on its dark, grainy surface like two skillets. He leaned toward the GM.

“You tell those butt heads in Toronto that they either bring me up,” his father said coldly, jutting out his chin at the GM, “or they can go find the Chiefs another MVP.”

Dallas rested an elbow on the desk and dropped his forehead into his hands.

“Don't say that,” Dallas said, wagging his head in despair.

“When you're down,” his father said, “you hit where it hurts.”

“They don't care,” Dallas said slowly.

“It's like a poker game,” Josh's father said. “I've played it before. They like to bluff.”

“It's no bluff, Gary. They thought about it. They know how well you've done, but bringing in a one-point-eight-seven ERA against Rochester isn't like doing it against the Yankees. You can't go up, and you can't go back down.”

His father stared hard at Dallas and said, “I wouldn't expect you to say anything else.”

“I tried, Gary,” Dallas said, looking up at him. “I begged them.”

“Well,” his father said, looking back uncomfortably at Josh, “next time. We know what that's like; don't we, buddy?”

Josh nodded enthusiastically.

“No, Gary,” Dallas said. “I'm sorry. It's over.”

“What's over?” his father said, standing tall and clenching his fists.

“They agreed to let me keep you through next week,” Dallas said, “to play out the home series with Pawtucket. They're letting me have a retirement ceremony during the seventh-inning stretch. Saturday's bat day. There should be a crowd.”

Josh's father did something Josh had never seen
before, ever. He let his enormous shoulders sag. His chin dipped toward his chest, and one of his big hands swept over his face.

“I—” he said to Dallas, then stopped.

Josh thought he heard his father whisper that he was the MVP.

Outside Dallas's window the sun sparkled on the lake, and an army of puffy clouds marched across the sky. Josh's father brushed past him and flung open the office door. Dallas called to him, but Josh's father stood punching the elevator button, and Josh followed him. Dallas's secretary didn't look up from her typing as they waited for the elevator to come, and Dallas stopped calling so that when it did arrive, the ding of its bell sounded like the end of a prizefight.

Back in the car, Josh waited until they pulled into their own driveway before he asked, “Dad, what happens now?”

THE NEXT DAY, JOSH
stuffed his baseball mitt, cleats, and hat into his gym locker. He felt someone tap his shoulder and he turned around.

“You see this, dude?” Benji asked, shoving the school newspaper into his face. Benji's straight brown hair fell across his face, his dark eyes glittering up at Josh. His plump cheeks tugged at a mischievous smile. Benji was average height but stout and tough, a good athlete who was quick to laugh himself but even quicker when it came to making other people laugh.

Josh felt his cheeks heat up. “Yeah, I saw it.”

He pushed past Benji and out into the crowded hallway, making for the stairs and his book locker on the second floor before the first bell rang.

“Dude, this girl
loves
you,” Benji said, following close.

“What girl?” Josh asked, turning around when he reached his locker, his mind on Sheila, the tenth grader's girlfriend.

“
This
girl,” Benji said, stabbing his finger at the byline of the newspaper article about Josh. Benji closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and made kissing noises at Josh.

“Cut it out.”

“She does.”

“I got other things to worry about,” Josh said, spinning the dial on his locker and choosing to tell Benji the next worst thing to his dad getting cut from the Chiefs. “Bart Wilson showed up at my bus stop yesterday after school wanting to fight me, because, he says, I'm after Sheila Conway and she's his girlfriend.”

“Are you?” Benji asked.

Josh gave him a dirty look. “She sat next to me at lunch. You saw it. She's an eighth grader. What am I supposed to do?”

“Not keep smiling at her,” Benji said.

“Believe me, I won't,” Josh said, stuffing his backpack into the locker and removing the books he needed for the first two periods. “That's what you get for being nice.”

“Anyway, you've got a new girlfriend now,” Benji said, holding up the paper.

“Cut it out,” Josh said, closing his locker and heading for homeroom.

“You do.”

“I'll see you at lunch.”

 

At lunch, Josh bought four milks, then found an empty table near the glass wall that looked out over the hallway. He took four sandwiches out of his bag and lined them up with an apple and some pretzels. They only got twenty-two minutes to eat, and it took all of that for Josh to put down everything he needed to stay fueled up. Benji, who wasn't small but who was nowhere near Josh's size, could eat his lunch in five minutes, leaving him plenty of time to talk, which he did, usually without pause.

The long table began to fill up. Several guys Josh knew who were going out for the baseball team sat across from him, and he said hello quietly, keeping his head angled down at his food. When Benji arrived, he whistled and hooted and slapped high fives with the other guys, asking them if they were ready for baseball season. Benji planned on being the team's catcher. Josh, like the others, listened as Benji told a story about how the baseball coach's wife divorced him after the team lost every single game last year.

“And I can't say I blame her, dude,” Benji said. “No one likes a loser.”

“That's not true, is it?” Josh asked, blinking at his friend.

“If it's not, it should be,” Benji said, peeling back
the paper on an enormous cupcake he pulled from his lunch bag.

“Speaking of divorce and marriage,” Benji continued, slowly licking the colored sprinkles from the brown frosting, “you set a wedding date yet with Jaden Neidermeyer?”

The other kids laughed. Josh shook his head.

“Yeah,” Benji said, dabbing the frosting now with his tongue, “any girl that writes an article like that is in love, deep.”

Josh saw the kids across from them stop laughing suddenly. Their eyes went past Benji. He turned just in time to see Jaden, her face red and pinched, reach over Benji's shoulder and grab his hand.

Before Benji could react, Jaden slammed the cupcake up into his face, mashing it around and leaving him with a mask of brown frosting and yellow hunks of cake.

The entire table howled with laughter. Benji, to his credit, sat calmly, licking a clean spot around his mouth.

“I love the
game,
you goober,” Jaden said, her voice tinged with a southern accent as she scowled at Josh, “not
him.
”

“What did I do?” Josh asked.

“Nothing,” she said in her light drawl. “You just sat there like a big dummy, listening to him talk about me
when all I did was tell everybody how great a player you are. You know how much research I had to do? Tracking down your coach from when you lived in Manchester? Going through all those stupid Little League records in Mr. O'Dwyer's basement that smells like cat crap?”

Josh's mouth fell open. He stared.

Jaden had light brown skin and long, frizzy hair that she kept pulled into a ponytail. Except for big green eyes, which reminded Josh of a cat's, her features were small, almost elfish, even though she was one of the taller girls and big-boned. She was both pretty and formidable. She didn't have more than a handful of friends, and she rarely talked except to answer questions in class. But Josh thought that Jaden only
seemed
like a loner because she always had her nose in a book and hadn't moved into town much more than a year ago. Deep down, he suspected she was like a treasure box, and, if you lifted the lid, you'd be blinded by gems.

“I'm a reporter,” Jaden said, jabbing a finger in the back of Benji's neck, “not a floozy.”

Just then Josh saw Sheila Conway walking his way with a tray. Her long blond hair swished from side to side, glimmering. She wore a short black dress and a wide smile. Josh swallowed hard and looked up at Jaden.

“Would you mind sitting here?” he asked her, pulling out the empty chair beside him. “Please? I'll explain. I
really need you to.”

“Hey, dude,” Benji said, dabbing some frosting out from the corner of his eye and licking his finger, “she just smashed a cupcake into my face and you're asking her to sit down?”

“Please,” Josh said again, begging.

Jaden glanced over her shoulder and saw Sheila Conway coming. Jaden nodded her head and sat right down, smiling up at the older girl. Sheila wrinkled her nose, cast Josh a dirty look, and kept on going. Josh sighed and stole a glance at her as she strutted away.

“Thanks,” he said to Jaden.

“Now you can leave,” Benji said, leaning forward so Jaden could see his frown. His eyes popped out at her, unblinking in the mess of frosting. “Girls, they're nothing but trouble.”

“Is he always this idiotic?” Jaden asked, taking an orange from her lunch bag and beginning to peel away the skin.

“You'll get used to it,” Josh said, grinning and extending his hand.

Jaden returned the smile, and they shook.